


The Gaul

by lallyloo



Category: Eagle of the Ninth Series - Rosemary Sutcliff, The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 19:32:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lallyloo/pseuds/lallyloo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Esca is a gladiator and Marcus is a total fanboy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gaul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [poziomeczka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poziomeczka/gifts).



> Written for The Eagle Exchange. Thanks to coeurdesoleil for the helpful beta work!

It is at his uncle's suggestion that Marcus finds himself at the gladiator games with Placidus. Marcus has never been fond of the games, and has no interest in attending them with Placidus, but his uncle was incessant.

 

It is just as he'd remembered, the air thick with the smell of dirt and blood and death, and Marcus has to bite his tongue and breathe through his mouth to keep from gagging at the stench of it. The other spectators don't seem to notice it, perhaps too distracted by the excitement of the day, but neither the thrum of excitement, nor the open air of the amphitheater, can keep Marcus from noticing all the details he despises. He's never liked the games, not even as a small child, and he never seemed to grow used to them as the other Roman children had.

To Marcus, it is still a venue for death. Men are forced to fight for their lives. Men enter the arena, never to leave again.

As a soldier, he'd understood the honour in death. Fighting for your lands, your country, your gods. But there is no honour to be had here. These are prisoners or slaves, surely, but still men. Men who are forced to fight for their own survival.

Marcus has never understood it.

 

Marcus accepts the clay tablet as he passes through the door, and follows Placidus to their assigned seats.

“Not bad seating, considering the size of the place and the number of officials in attendance,” Placidus is saying, and Marcus tries his best to greet the statement with a polite smile and a nod of his head.

He's never been fond of Placidus either. The man is two years younger than Marcus, with less worldly experience, but he's wise in the field of politics. He knows how to interact with his superiors, and those in positions of power. He knows what to say, and when to say it, though Marcus can't help but note that he's never been good at holding his tongue. Placidus is rude and smug and often fails to notice when he's offended someone. It's a detail that pleases Marcus, noticing that weakness in Placidus when Placidus seems so keen on looking for weaknesses in Marcus.

They take their seats, and as Placidus continues to speak, Marcus takes the opportunity to look around the amphitheater. He recognizes a few men, most friends of his uncle, and he nods politely in acknowledgement.

As the parade starts, Marcus finds he can hardly bring himself to watch, knowing he's watching some men march to their deaths. He ignores the gladiators, not wanting to see their faces or their bodies without their weapons and armour. Marcus doesn't want the reminder that these are men who are about to be forced into battle for the amusement of the spectators, their fates decided by a simple fist or thumbs down.

The first few fights irk him, and he can hardly force himself to watch. He keeps his eyes focused on the outskirts, so as not to seem entirely weak-hearted, and is able to see the action without having to focus on the men, or the blood that begins to fall from them.

 

As one of the bigger fights is called, and the gladiators are brought in, Marcus finds his gaze distracted, pulled to the center of the arena by one particular gladiator. The man's torso is covered in blue swirls, marks that curl around his back and down his arms, and he carries a large shield, painted in undecipherable patterns of various colours. He wears no helmet, and his hair flows wildly.

“It's a Gaul,” Placidus says, and Marcus can only hum in response.

A prisoner then, or a slave forced to fight.

Marcus has seen a few Gauls fight, but never one like this. The ones Marcus has seen are typically his size or even bigger, men of impressive girth and stature, but this man is different. He is small in stature, and lean, but even from a distance Marcus is able to see the strength in the man's arms as he grips his shield and sword and prepares himself for battle.

Marcus leans forward in his seat, intrigued, wanting to see the small warrior fight.

He's quick, and it doesn't take long to see how he's managed to survive in the gladiator arena. The Gaul ducks and turns, dodging each of his opponent's strikes, and it's only a minute or two before he scores the first proper hit, his sword slicing into the other gladiator's bicep. The gladiator turns away as he takes the hit, his injured arm lagging as he attempts to maintain a hold on his shield.

Marcus finds himself drawn to the Gaul's face and the obvious strength in him as he spins and moves away from his opponent, as if granting him a breath, and then he's striking again, knocking the shield from the gladiator's hand. His movements are too quick to give his opponent an opportunity to pick up his shield, and the other gladiator is forced to fight on without it, blocking each attack with his sword, and using his injured arm to protect the rest of his body.

The crowd cheers as the Gaul deals another swift blow, slicing through the gladiator's shoulder, sending him to his knees. A moment passes, a beat, and the gladiator falls forward.

The smaller gladiator takes a step back, turning, silently acknowledging the crowd as he waits for their verdict. Marcus knows how this goes, he's seen it before, but he's surprised by the restraint in the Gaul. Many gladiators step on their opponents, cutting off their breath with a foot as they wait, while others taunt and jeer, encouraging the crowd to vote for death. But the Gaul remains silent, his eyes surveying the crowd as the thumbs begin to turn downward.

“Death! Death!”

Marcus remains still, ignoring the shouts from those around him, and refuses to raise his hand when Placidus nudges him with an elbow.

“A Roman who won't vote in the arena,” Placidus goads, “I've never seen the like of it.”

Marcus hasn't voted yet today and he still has no intention to, whether the small warrior meets his eye or not.

To his dismay, the Gaul doesn't meet his gaze, his eyes traveling too quickly over the crowd, as if it's something he's done countless times before and he no longer bothers to look into the eyes of the spectators.

Those calling for death win out, and as the Gaul raises his sword there is a brief moment of silence, as if the crowd is taking a collective gasp. Then cheers ring out as the smaller gladiator sends his sword plunging into the other man's chest, giving him his death.

Amidst the roar of the crowd, Marcus finds his breath has quickened. He is enthralled – not so much by the fight, but by the small warrior.

“Shame,” he hears Placidus mutter, “to be killed like that by a Gaul.”

Marcus ignores him as he watches the painted gladiator leave the arena.

 

Marcus finds himself distracted during the last few fights, eying the sidelines for a glimpse of the Gaul, though he knows it is impossible as the man is likely in a cell below the arena.

As they leave the amphitheater, Marcus lets himself be drawn into conversation with Placidus, trying to give no indication that his mind is preoccupied with a gladiator.

“I've been to better shows,” Placidus says, looking to Marcus for a reaction, and Marcus attempts to appear interested as he gives the reply he knows Placidus is waiting for.

“Oh, have you?”

“Indeed,” Placidus nods, listing other, better shows he's attended, and how this one could have been improved.

To Marcus's relief, he is forced to say very little before they find themselves at his uncle's door. As his uncle greets them, Placidus leaves Marcus's side, finding more interesting –and more important– men to converse with.

 

When they find themselves alone for a moment, his uncle leans in, and speaks quietly in Marcus’s ear. “I trust you weren't too bothered by the events at the arena today?”

Marcus knows his uncle is aware of his distaste for the arena, so he turns to him and offers a smile.

“But little,” Marcus says, wanting to appease him, “I've seen worse.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” his uncle says quietly. “And Placidus?”

“He was no more of a bother than any other day,” Marcus replies, causing his uncle to laugh and give him a clap on the shoulder.

“I appreciate your patience, my boy.”

 

Marcus keeps his mind from the gladiator until later that evening, when he is finally alone in his quarters.

His mind drifts back to the events in the arena, and Marcus remembers the Gaul's small stature and quick movements. Marcus can feel himself stiffen as he thinks of the gladiator's lean body and his obvious strength as he clutched his sword.

Marcus should be ashamed of his actions, but he can hardly bring himself to be as he fists a hand around his cock and pulls himself off, thinking of the strength and determination of the small gladiator.

He's never allowed himself to think of another before, man nor woman, but Marcus cannot keep his thoughts from the Gaul.

Colours and patterns flash through his mind as he reaches his climax, and as it hits him, Marcus remembers the expression on the Gaul's face as he addressed the crowd. Proud, distant, unwilling to bend and spare them a proper glance – and that look is what Marcus sees as he spills beneath his bedclothes.

As he retrieves a warm wash rag, Marcus doesn't allow himself a moment to consider what he’s just done, too frightened of what conclusion he might reach from his actions. Instead, he focuses on cleaning himself and hiding his soiled bedclothes, lest Stephanos finds them, before forcing himself to sleep.

~

Marcus watches for an announcement of another gladiator show, not wanting to miss a chance to see the small warrior again. He doesn't mention it to Placidus, and hopes Placidus won't mention it to him. It seems unlikely, as he was hardly desirable company the first time, so Marcus is disappointed when the next show is finally announced, and Placidus is the one to inform him.

“Surely we should attend this one together,” he says, “I'm determined to break you of your hatred for it.”

Marcus knows he cannot refuse Placidus's company, as it is likely they would encounter each other in the amphitheater, so his only option is to decline attending altogether. Marcus barely considers the idea before accepting Placidus's invitation. He would rather endure Placidus's company than to avoid it and be forced to miss the painted Gaul.

 

When the day arrives, Marcus eats his breakfast quickly and bids his uncle farewell as he heads for the amphitheater. Placidus had suggested they meet and walk together, but Marcus refused the offer, wanting to have his thoughts to himself as he walked.

He waves a greeting to Placidus when he catches sight of him by the main entrance, and Marcus manages to hide his secret excitement as they enter the amphitheater. Taking his clay tablet, Marcus is quick to find his seat, climbing the stairs ahead of Placidus.

“For a lame soldier, you've got quite a gait on you,” Placidus calls to him, as he rushes to catch up.

On any other day, Marcus might be annoyed at the insult, but on this day he finds it does little to quash his good mood.

“Merely wanting a place to rest my leg,” Marcus says, playing into Placidus's conversation.

“For a moment I wondered if you'd had a change of heart about the games.”

“No,” Marcus replies, “I haven't changed my mind about that.”

“To think, a Roman soldier who can't tolerate a gladiator show.”

“And yet, I'm here, am I not?”

“You are,” Placidus nods, giving him an odd look. “You are.”

 

Excitement thrums through Marcus as the parade starts, and he finds himself craning his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the Gaul in the crowd of gladiators. After a moment, Marcus spots him. He's painted as before, though the patterns appears slightly different, and he is without his weaponry. There's a flash of colour behind him, and Marcus realizes it is his shield being carried by a slave.

“I see the Gaul is still alive,” Placidus shouts above the noise, and Marcus gives a vague nod.

The small gladiator is painted and tattooed, his hair just as wild as Marcus remembered it. The Gaul doesn't wave to the crowd, or try to gain their affection the way some of the other gladiators do. It would be easy to seduce the crowd and bring them to his side, and it would certainly benefit him if he were to find himself begging for his own life on the ground of the arena. But the Gaul does nothing.

Marcus can't explain the strange kinship he feels with the man. Perhaps it is because he is like no other Gaul Marcus has seen, or perhaps it is because of his skill, or his pride, or the sheer determination of will that keeps him alive in the face of such dangerous adversaries.

Neither can Marcus explain his attraction to the man, and his cheeks burn as he remembers the many nights he's spent thinking about the Gaul. Marcus keeps his eyes on the arena, fearful that if he were to meet Placidus's gaze then surely Placidus would know. Marcus's desires would show in his eyes, and the flush of his cheeks, and Marcus cannot let anyone know the things he wants.

The parade turns, signaling its end, and Marcus cranes his neck to watch the Gaul walk with the other gladiators, back the way they came. Marcus knows that the next time he sees the man he will be fighting for his life, and guilt nags at Marcus as he waits impatiently for that moment. He shouldn't wish it to come too soon, shouldn't wish any man be deprived of what could be the last few minutes of his life, but Marcus is sure the Gaul won't lose.

Something in his heart tells him it is impossible.

 

Marcus watches carefully each time a new fight is called, looking for the painted warrior, and he grows tired of the entertainment in between. The music grates at him, and the ridiculous pageantry is too much when each show of it occurs after one death and just before another.

As the afternoon wears on, yet another fight is called and Marcus finally catches sight of the Gaul. He looks the same as before, though he is carrying a different sword, and Marcus can't take his eyes off him.

“I'll bet he meets his end in this one,” Placidus says jovially.

Marcus doesn't acknowledge the comment, too annoyed by it to respond, and too distracted by the Gaul to focus his attention elsewhere.

The fight begins, and Marcus watches as the other gladiator swipes, jabs, strikes – evidently more focused on speed and force than actual skill. The Gaul dodges each attack and earns a quick jab in his opponent's thigh, sending the other gladiator stumbling.

As the fighting continues, the Gaul's moves remain quick and unexpected, and the injured gladiator begins to get sloppy, striking at inopportune moments while missing any slight chance for a hit.

Marcus watches carefully, and sees an opportunity for the Gaul to strike a fatal blow, but notices the small gladiator does not take it. It's as if he's granting his opponent another chance, or a few more minutes of life at least. It's futile, as it's clear who the winner will be, and Marcus watches the Gaul take a few quick steps back, as if calling his opponent to fight, giving him a chance to regroup and attack.

Finally, when it is clear the fight cannot go on without beginning to stir the ire of the crowd, the Gaul stabs once, quickly, hitting his opponent in the abdomen, then withdraws and stabs again, turning his sword to make the death a quick one. The gladiator goes down, his body still as his blood spills over the dusty ground.

There is no chance for begging. No chance for a reprieve.

As the Gaul moves to stand over the gladiator, the crowd cheers.

“Not even a vote in that one,” Placidus mutters as the arena is cleared for another round of music and performances.

“I need to piss,” Marcus replies, watching the Gaul retreat.

 

Marcus leaves his seat, moving hastily, lest Placidus get it in his mind to join him. Without thinking, Marcus heads beyond the pissing area, beyond the more presentable sections of the amphitheater, managing to locate the entrance to the lower levels. A guard blocks him for a moment, and Marcus slips him a few coins and manages to get through without question.

He doesn't give a thought as to why he's heading to the gladiator cells, he only knows he wants to see the Gaul. Another guard stops him and Marcus offers a few more coins, asking where they hold the Gaul. He is pointed in the direction of a smaller cell near the end of the row, and Marcus can feel his heart race as he moves down the small corridor.

None of the cells are particularly nice, but they seem to get worse as they go on. When Marcus reaches the last few cells they appear dark and damp, stinking of blood and sweat, and Marcus can only imagine what it must be like to be held there, waiting for your death.

The last cell is damp like the others, with some sort of liquid seeping down the wall and collecting in a puddle on the ground. Marcus steels himself when he spots the Gaul on the other side of the bars. The smaller man turns when Marcus pushes open the door, and Marcus raises a hand to caution him.

“Marcus Flavius Aquila,” he says, offering a nod to the Gaul.

He's met with a look of suspicion before the smaller man turns away.

“Get out, Roman, I am not for sale.”

Marcus is confused by the statement, but also surprised to find the Gaul speaks some Latin. It is likely he was a slave then, picking up Latin while serving in a household somewhere. Marcus tries to imagine the painted warrior with the wild hair serving soup and washing clothes, but he finds he cannot.

“I have no wish to buy you,” Marcus replies.

“That is not what I meant.”

It takes a moment for Marcus to realize the Gaul is speaking of something else. Something Marcus could pay for and take, if he wished it. He's heard of the women who visit gladiator cells, men too, and Marcus cannot keep his cheeks from blazing as he gives a fervent shake of his head.

“That is not why I am here.”

Marcus won't allow himself to consider the other option. He is there to speak, only.

“Tell me, then,” the Gaul says, “a Roman down here in the cells, what else would you be after?”

“I only wished to speak to you.”

“Then speak.”

“Will you tell me your name?”

“Why would a Roman want to know my name?”

“I've seen you fight in the arena,” Marcus explains. “Twice now, I've watched you defeat an enemy that by appearance could have killed you with one hand. I should like to know the name of such a gladiator.”

The Gaul watches him for a moment, suspicion still on his brow as he mutters, “you may call me Esca.”

“Esca,” Marcus repeats, running the word over his tongue. It's an intriguing name, and like none he's ever heard before.

He can't help but focus on the slim body of the Gaul – _Esca_. He’s wiry, but strong, and a good foot shorter than Marcus. His skin appears dark with the layers of blood and dirt and paint, but a pale streak below his chin tells Marcus that his skin is likely quite fair. His eyes, too, are a weathered shade of blue, dark as the skies before a summer storm.

“You wished to speak with me,” Esca says after a moment, and Marcus realizes he's been staring.

“Yes,” he replies, “I wished to offer you congratulations on a fight well fought.”

It is absurd, and Marcus knows it. No Roman would travel to the gladiator cells for such a purpose, especially when the fight had been average at best.

“It was a poor fight,” Esca mutters. “Unfairly matched.”

“Perhaps it was.”

“Well, you've offered your congratulations on winning an unfair fight,” Esca snaps at him. “Is that all then?”

“The other gladiator,” Marcus stutters, wanting to continue speaking with Esca, “I saw that you spared him a moment or two, and I cannot help but wonder why.”

When Esca ignores him, Marcus continues, “why would you spare him those moments and then take his life in the end? You didn't allow him a vote.”

Esca glares at him, spitting into the sand. “I spared him the shame of begging for his life. The crowd would never have granted it to him.”

The admission stuns Marcus.

“Is that what you wished to hear?” Esca asks.

“Your purpose is to kill or be killed, is it not? And yet, you offered that man a breath–”

“ _My purpose?_ ” Esca snarls. “My purpose here is to fight as a gladiator until the day my freedom is returned to me. Rome took that, so here I stand. Kill or be killed, yes, but who is to say a poor fighter shouldn't be granted a moment of respite and a quick death when life is no longer an option?”

“A fair point,” Marcus says quickly, “the games are nothing more than senseless death for the sake of entertaining the masses.”

“And yet, you claim to have seen me fight twice.”

“I have seen that,” Marcus admits, “and many other games besides, but that means nothing.”

“A Roman who dislikes the events in the arena?” Esca says, turning from him. “I've met many a Roman in my time, but you're surely the oddest.”

“And you're the oddest Gaul I've ever seen,” Marcus rumbles in reply, “so I suppose we are even.”

Esca turns to look at him, and Marcus is sure a smirk plays at his mouth. “Is that all, Roman?”

“Marcus.”

Esca scoffs. “Your name means little to me, and if you wish me to address you by it, I won't.”

“Fine,” Marcus replies, and Esca seems unwilling to give him anything more.

When it is clear the conversation will go no further, Marcus turns to leave. He slips through the gated door, closing it behind him, and is three cells away when Esca calls to him.

“Enjoy the games, Roman.”

 

The last fight has already been called when Marcus returns from the lower levels, so he exits the amphitheater to wait for Placidus.

“Where did you disappear to?” Placidus asks when they manage to locate each other outside on the street.

“I'd left my tablet behind, and couldn't remember where we were seated,” Marcus lies.

Placidus looks suspicious but doesn't question him further. He's always thought Marcus to be a bit of a lout and that works to Marcus's advantage this time.

~

A small part of Marcus hopes that meeting with the Gaul – _Esca_ , he reminds himself– will stop the thoughts of him at night. He hopes it will stop the need to fist himself at the thought of Esca in the arena, or the need to pull himself off at the thought of Esca's quickness and determination, or the urge to spill his seed at the memory of Esca's face as he defied the crowd and stood in silence.

It does not.

If anything, his encounter with Esca only seems to spurn Marcus on further, remembering the proud strip of a Gaul, defiant even in the face of a Roman in his cell. Marcus finds himself thinking of Esca's voice, his accent licking each word of Latin he spoke, and for the first few nights, Marcus pulls himself off to that memory alone.

It is shameful, he knows, but he cannot bring himself to stop.

 

The games become an obsession, and Marcus listens carefully to word in the streets and examines each new announcement scrawled on the walls. When another set of games is finally announced, Marcus is determined he will attend them alone.

Marcus manages to dodge Placidus long enough to avoid discussing the upcoming games, and when the day arrives Marcus is pleased as he sets off for the amphitheater on his own.

When the parade starts, Marcus finds he is quite anxious, leaning forward in his seat to catch a glimpse of Esca. It is different this time, knowing the Gaul's name, and Marcus wonders if Esca will look to the crowd and search for his face. He knows it is unlikely, and yet, he keeps his eyes on Esca until the parade turns and the gladiators head back below.

 

When Esca's fight is called, the crowd jeers.

“Look at the tiny Gaul!”

“Kill the barbarian!”

The words cause Marcus's blood to boil, and he resists seeking out the instigators, not wanting his quick temper to push him into a fight of his own.

As the gladiators begin their battle, Marcus's anger quickly turns to worry as the larger opponent gets a jab in and barely misses Esca's side. Esca dodges the hit and moves away, running, then turning and getting in a hit of his own. The crowd cheers each jab and boos each near miss, and it's clear one of them is going to need to make a strike to appease the uneasy crowd.

The opponent hits then, slicing a cut clean across Esca's thigh. Even at a distance, Marcus can see the blood seep through the fabric of Esca’s braccae. Esca stumbles for a moment, falling to one knee, and Marcus can feel his breath hitch as the crowd lets out an enthusiastic cheer.

“Another!”

“Take him down!”

Marcus holds his breath as Esca regains his footing, and is certain he doesn't breathe again until Esca stabs his sword through his opponent's gut and sends him falling to the ground. The crowd cheers, turning their support to Esca and calling for death, and Marcus breathes a sigh of relief when the other gladiator is dead, lying still below Esca.

As Esca stands above his defeated opponent, he surveys the crowd again. Marcus is sure their eyes meet for a moment, and is disappointed when Esca shows no sign of recognition.

Marcus watches Esca leave the arena, the dead gladiator dragged out behind him. Then, having no one to make excuses to, Marcus quickly leaves his seat and heads for the cells below.

 

“The Gaul,” Marcus says to the guard, slipping some coins in his palm, and he's pointed to the same long corridor.

As Marcus walks to the end cell, he's hit by the sound of voices – raised, and angry. As he reaches Esca's cell he finds a doctor standing over Esca, hastily stitching the cut on Esca's thigh. Esca is stripped, seated on the damp limestone slab, and Marcus looks away for a moment, embarrassed.

“Go easy, you fool. Your clumsy hands will only make it worse.”

Esca's raised voice calls Marcus to look again, and he finds himself unable to take his eyes from Esca's bare thighs, the skin pale next to the darkness of his painted torso. His position makes it hard for Marcus to get a glimpse of Esca's cock.

Not that Marcus is looking for it.

As Marcus stares, he realizes Esca has caught sight of him and is watching him through the bars.

“I am still alive, Roman,” he calls as their eyes meet, and Marcus looks away. “And here you are again. I thought you hated these games.”

“Shut your mouth, barbarian,” the doctor scolds, “you distract me from my work.”

“You distract yourself, you blaggard,” Esca retorts, and Marcus uses the opportunity to slip away.

As he heads back along the corridor, Marcus can hear Esca shouting behind him, “A respectable Roman in the cells, doctor, have you ever seen such a thing?”

When Marcus reaches the guard, he slips him several more coins.

“You will move that one to a better cell?”

The guard counts the coins and considers Marcus for a moment before nodding.

“Be sure you do,” Marcus warns, towering over the man. “I'll be displeased if I find my coin has gone to waste.”

~

“They've got a Gaul fighting in the games.”

Marcus flushes when the words are out of his mouth, afraid his interest in Esca will show on his face.

To his relief, his uncle simply seems happy with the conversation. Marcus has been unusually quiet since his last trip to the games, his mind quite often focused on Esca, and he knows his uncle has likely noticed the change.

“I've heard tell of him,” his uncle replies, “the last editor was maddened when he survived.”

“He's small in stature, but a great fighter,” Marcus enthuses. “It's remarkable.”

He turns to find his uncle looking at him, his face a cross of amusement and confusion. “I'm surprised to hear you speak of the games with such enthusiasm. What did you call them once? A venue for senseless death?”

“Well, they are still that,” Marcus replies, and his uncle lets out a hearty laugh.

“This Gaul must be worth it, if Marcus Aquila will endure all that senseless death. To think, a foreign-tongued barbarian bringing such excitement to the arena.”

“I imagine he was a slave once,” Marcus says without thinking, “he speaks Latin.”

Embarrassed, Marcus turns away but he can feel his uncle's eyes still on him.

“Perhaps I should attend the next show and see this Gaul for myself.”

“You wouldn't be disappointed,” Marcus replies.

 

His curiosity obviously peeked, Marcus’s uncle accompanies him to the amphitheater one week after the games are announced. After receiving their clay tablets, Marcus is careful not to rush ahead, tucking an arm under his uncle's and helping him up the stairs to their seats.

“Never grow old, my boy,” his uncle says, “it brings nothing but misery and trouble.”

“You are not so old yet,” Marcus replies, and his uncle scoffs at him.

“I am twice your age, and you are no young man yourself.”

Marcus shakes his head at the statement, ignoring the implication behind it. He is nearly thirty and unmarried, a fact that is starting to draw attention. There are those who like to remind him that a lame soldier should act quickly and find a wife before his looks go the way of his scarred and twisted leg. There are others, too, who believe he should go into politics, as if he'll find his calling there. But Marcus has no desire to enter that world and become a bored old man or a cynic like Placidus. And Marcus has no desire to find himself a wife.

He is pulled from his thoughts as the parade begins, and he watches for Esca in the crowd.

“Is that the Gaul?” his uncle asks, and Marcus moves his gaze to the second line of gladiators entering the arena. Esca walks on the end, his body painted more colourfully than Marcus has ever seen it, reds and blues streaking down his torso and over his hips, the patterns seeming to disappear beneath his braccae.

Marcus reddens at the knowledge that Esca's flesh is unpainted beneath his braccae, and he remembers the fair skin of Esca's thighs.

“Yes,” Marcus says, realizing he hasn't replied to the question. He keeps his eyes trained on Esca, who continues to ignore the crowd as he parades around the amphitheater.

“You were right when you said he was small.”

“Small in stature, but strong in will,” Marcus says, biting his tongue after the words escape him.

“Indeed, indeed.” His uncle nods. “I am anxious to see him fight.”

 

Esca's opponent is large, his arms and legs wrapped, with a helmet and breastplate protecting him. Marcus is frustrated at the pairing, a seemingly unfair match, as Esca stands bare-chested with nothing more than a sword and shield to defend himself.

Marcus’s frustration gives way to worry when the fight begins and Esca's first few jabs are foiled by the armour of the other gladiator. A clang rings out each time Esca strikes the thick breastplate, and Marcus slides forward on his seat, his heart racing as Esca dodges each blow his opponent aims at him.

When Esca manages to get a hit in, his sword slices easily through the thick wrapping on the other gladiator's leg, but does little else. As he turns away, Marcus watches with horror as Esca's opponent raises his sword and swipes, cutting across Esca's side.

The crowd cheers at the hit, their shouts growing louder as blood seeps from Esca's wound. Esca clutches his side, the thick redness smearing the paint on his torso.

“An unfair battle, really,” his uncle mutters, and Marcus cannot tear his focus from Esca to reply.

Marcus holds his breath, willing Esca to keep moving, pleased when Esca ducks and turns, slipping under his opponent's arm and emerging behind him. A quick swing of Esca's sword takes a nick out of the gladiator's back, and the crowd cheers at the unexpected hit.

The two men move away from each other for a moment, regrouping, then both rush forward, swords raised to strike. The clang of armour rattles Marcus to his core as he watches Esca's sword hit but do no damage, and there's a collective gasp when Esca's opponent sinks his sword into Esca's side, tearing through the already bleeding wound, and sending Esca to the ground.

As Esca falls, his blood spatters across the dry dirt, and he lies on his side for a moment, clutching his wound before collapsing onto his back. Marcus's eyes are wide as he watches the scene unfold. He stares at Esca, looking for the rise and fall of his chest, relieved to see that Esca is still breathing at least. It is obvious he is still alive, but Esca is unmoving as the gladiator stands over him and places a foot on his throat.

Esca does nothing. To his horror, Marcus realizes Esca is refusing to beg for his life.

The other gladiator raises his sword over Esca, turning to the crowd, questioning.

“Death!” someone shouts, and anger washes over Marcus as people begin turning their thumbs down, indicating the vote for death.

“Death!”

“Kill the Gaul!”

As the chants grow louder, Marcus can barely stand it. His body thrums with rage and fear as he rises to his feet, his uncle looking at him with surprise.

“Life!” Marcus shouts, holding his fist in the air, his calls drowned out by the calls for death.

“ _Life!_ ”

Marcus gestures to the people seated near him.

“Turn your thumbs, you fools!”

He shouts until his voice begins to turn hoarse, each cry of “life” growing more and more desperate.

The moment seems to drag on forever, his cries drowning in the shouts for death, until finally, _finally_ , it seems the crowd begins to turn. Marcus's voice seems louder, as if it's possible he might be heard over the roar of the crowd.

“Life!” he cries, and to his amazement Esca turns his gaze, his neck still trapped under the foot of the other gladiator. His eyes meet Marcus's across the crowd, and Marcus calls again, “Life! Let him live!”

“Life!” Another voice, not his own, echoes through the arena.

“Life!”

“Life!”

Marcus repeats the word over and over, the chant growing louder as more people join him, until at last Esca's opponent seems to ease and lower his sword. Marcus doesn't stop shouting until he is sure the gladiator has backed off and he is sure that Esca's life has been spared.

When Esca is carried from the arena and Marcus falls quiet, he hears his uncle's voice from beside him.

“Why did you save him?”

“I need a breath of air,” Marcus mutters, leaving his uncle's side and escaping to the lower levels. He is desperate to get to Esca's cell, worried over the injury Esca suffered in the arena, and wanting to be sure he will survive.

The guard recognizes Marcus as he hands off another few coins, and he's pointed in a different direction than before. Marcus follows the new corridor, finding Esca still at the end. His cell appears slightly larger than before and noticeably drier, at least.

Esca is laid out on a slab as a doctor tends to his wounds, and Marcus frets as he watches from the other side of the bars. Blood flows from a hole in Esca's side, and Marcus can only watch as his wound is crudely stitched and wrapped.

Marcus paces outside the cell, unaware of how much time passes before he hears a groan and a sharp-tongued “stop pulling on my insides, you pig.”

“Still yourself, Gaul, or you'll ruin the stitch.” The doctor gives Esca a slap on the head, and to Marcus's surprise, Esca takes the hit, quieting as a scolded child might.

When the doctor finally departs, stepping through the door and passing Marcus without much of a glance, Marcus steps into Esca's cell. He can't help but pace, worried, and Esca attempts to sit up when he catches sight of him.

“Here again,” Esca says, cradling his side, “what do you want, Roman?”

“I only wished to check on you–“ Marcus stutters, “to make sure, to be sure you were alright.”

Esca narrows his eyes, looking at Marcus with suspicion. “I do not need you to fret over me. Nor to save me in the arena.”

“You needed someone to save you,” Marcus replies, “you threw down your life.”

“I refused to beg for it,” Esca snaps, “it is not the same thing. I was defeated and was ready to die.”

“It was a flesh wound only,” Marcus spits back, “it wasn't enough to kill you.”

“And what if I should want to die? Who are you, a Roman, to tell me I shouldn't?”

“You don't seem the type of man to give up so easily.”

“And how would you know what type of man I am?”

“I've watched you fight,” Marcus replies, “I've seen your honour and your fairness in the arena, whether you wanted it to be seen or not.”

“That means little,” Esca says, though the fight seems to be waning in his tone.

Marcus continues pacing as silence falls between them.

“You're injured.”

Marcus stills, wanting to hide his limp. A hand instinctively moves to his leg as he replies, “ _Was_. It is only a scar now.”

“And a limp.”

“And that,” Marcus concedes.

“I've been moved to a different cell,” Esca says after a moment, “I assume that was your doing?”

Marcus nods. “I slipped the guard a few coins.”

“For what purpose?”

“It was for your benefit only.”

“You're a strange one, Roman,” Esca says, his expression quickly turning to anger as he glares at Marcus. “I'll not be a kept plaything, put in a cage for your amusement.”

“You've misunderstood,” Marcus says quickly. “That is not how it is.”

“Then tell me how it is.”

“I admire your skill, and hate to see such a fighter forced to stay in a rotten cell.”

“The cells are all rotten. Perhaps one might be more so than another, but they are all full of filth and death.”

“Well, if you are forced to be here, you should have one that is less rotten.”

“You're a fool,” Esca replies, looking at Marcus as if he can't quite make sense of him.

“Perhaps I am,” Marcus nods, turning to the cell door.

“Though, better a fool than a pain in the arse!” Esca calls behind him. “At least a fool knows when he's not wanted!”

 

When Marcus exits the lower levels the games are long over, and he realizes he must return home to face his uncle. He is unsure how he'll explain his sudden disappearance, and several excuses play through his mind during the walk. But, to his relief, his uncle is quiet when he arrives.

Dinner is on the table, and Stephanos gestures for Marcus to take his seat before his food turns cold. Marcus obeys, thankful for the distraction, and has just taken a bite of fish when his uncle speaks.

“I trust the Gaul lived?”

Marcus coughs, nearly choking on his food. He pauses, taking care to chew and swallow as he tries to gain a few moments to consider his reply.

“It appears as such,” Marcus says, careful not to reveal how much he knows about Esca's recovery. “He was still breathing when they carried him from the arena.”

“I would be curious to know how they treat a Gaul in the cells.”

“Poorly, I imagine.” Marcus glances up to find his uncle's eye on him.

“Indeed.”

~

Marcus tries not to think of Esca.

It is futile, of course, as Esca enters his mind constantly. The night is the worst for it, when Marcus is alone in his room with only his thoughts to entertain him.

He remembers the events of the day – the fight, Esca's injury, and that moment of horror as the blade sliced through Esca's side. He remembers Esca in his cell, cursing at the doctor as he fought through his pain. Marcus knows Esca would never let it show, but it was obvious the injury was a serious one.

Marcus won't allow himself to consider how the day could have ended, for Esca is alive. A prisoner still, but living and breathing and remaining just as bull-headed and proud as he was the day Marcus first set eyes on him.

It is that memory that brings a warmth to Marcus's loins, his cock stirring beneath his sheets.

He remembers Esca's voice, and his eyes on Marcus when it was just the two of them in the cell. Esca hates him, surely, but there is something in the way he looks at Marcus that keeps Marcus going back. It is that memory that causes Marcus to fist himself, no longer resisting his desires as he jerks his cock and lifts his hips from the bed, crying out as he comes, and wishing it were Esca's hand on him.

Marcus stills, listening, fearful that someone in the house has heard him. His cheeks burn with the shame of it, and he puts out the oil lamp and forces himself to sleep.

That night he dreams of Esca.

~

When his uncle brings him word of the next gladiator games, Marcus sets the date to memory and counts the days until he can see the stubborn Gaul again.

 

Marcus is enthralled, eyes on Esca during the parade, watching him walk. Pride seems to seep from Esca as he moves, refusing to spare a glance at the roaring crowd.

Marcus watches Esca fight, sure he will be victorious this time, for surely his string of poor luck cannot last for three fights in a row. When Esca has outsmarted his opponent and is plunging his sword in the other man's gut, Marcus wants to cheer. He'd like to yell out a call of support, and pull Esca's gaze to him. He'd like to call the crowd to cheer with him, and make sure they see the sheer will of this spectacular Gaul.

But Marcus remains quiet, his heart humming with pride as he watches Esca withdraw his blade and walk from the arena.

Marcus manages to sit through one more fight, not wanting his uncle to grow suspicious should he leave too soon. When he finally manages to escape to the cells, he reaches the far end of the corridor and finds Esca pacing, his head snapping to attention when he catches sight of Marcus.

“Ah, there you are, Roman,” Esca says, “I thought perhaps you'd found yourself another gladiator to haunt.”

“I haven't,” Marcus mutters, stepping through the cell door. “I was only delayed.”

Esca remains still, watching him, and Marcus recognizes the look of suspicion in his eye.

“How fares your wound?” Marcus asks, his eyes falling to Esca's torso. The colourful paint covers much of him, but it is unable to mask the raised, gnarled flesh where Esca's skin is still healing.

“How fares my wound?” Esca scoffs. “What sort of Roman would wonder whether or not I am well?”

“It was only a question. I did not realize it was a crime to ask another man how he fared.”

“It is no crime,” Esca says, moving suddenly. His speed takes Marcus by surprise, and Marcus just manages to protect his bad leg as Esca pushes him against the wall, pulling Marcus's arm behind him and holding him there.

“It is no crime,” Esca repeats, his voice harsh in Marcus's ear, “though it makes me question what your interest is with an injured Gaul. What is it you want from me?”

“I only want– ” Marcus begins, shaking his head. He cannot tell Esca.

“Why do you keep coming here?” Esca hisses, cranking Marcus's arm harder behind him.

The force of it pulls a shout from Marcus, but he finds he is not in pain. His breath falls quickly, his cock growing hard beneath his toga as Esca holds him in place. He could likely overpower Esca – put his weight on his good leg and turn, throwing Esca off balance. He could gain the upper hand, but Marcus finds he does not want it.

“Why, Roman?” Esca hisses again, and his breath is even closer, warm against Marcus's cheek.

“I want– ” Marcus tries to say, “I want– ”

“You want– ” Esca says, mocking him, and there's a pause for a moment, as if he's spotted the flush in Marcus's cheeks, or noticed the scent of his arousal as his cock grows stiff and heated beneath his toga.

Marcus quiets, waiting, and a thrill courses through him when he feels Esca rut up against him.

“This, then?” Esca grunts, pressing him to the wall, pushing his hips into Marcus's backside, “is this what you've been wanting?”

Marcus cannot answer, unable to voice what he wants, but hoping desperately that Esca continues.

Esca's other hand moves to him, lifting his toga and pressing his fingers to Marcus's arse. He teases him, pulling a whine from Marcus's throat when he pushes in, the stretch of it too dry and too much. But Marcus doesn't wish him to stop, and he pushes back against Esca's hand, trying to show Esca what he wants. If Marcus cannot say it out loud, he will show Esca.

And Esca understands, yanking down the front of his braccae and pushing his cock against Marcus’s flesh. Marcus is surprised to find him hard already, his stiff length tapping urgently against Marcus’s hole. The head of Esca’s cock seems impossibly large, as if it will never fit inside Marcus. Surely it will stretch him, and fill him, and Marcus pushes back, wanting Esca to shove in.

“Is this what you want, Roman?” Esca taunts as his cock bumps against him. It is as if Esca is fisting a hand over his cock and teasing Marcus with it, _tap tap tap_.

Marcus groans softly, pressing his forehead to the wall, desperate for the cold dampness and hoping it will cool his flushed face.

“Yes,” he sighs, speaking to the wall and hoping Esca can hear him. “Please.”

Esca eases off for a moment, and the motion sends dread through Marcus. He's shamed himself. Shown Esca what he wants, bared himself and let Esca touch him, and now Esca will mock him for it. Marcus remains against the wall, too ashamed to face Esca and defend himself, and too ashamed to run.

He can hear Esca behind him, moving, and Marcus is just about to speak, to explain, to deny his desires, when Esca steps behind him again. Marcus can feel Esca’s hand pushing at his toga, lifting it further, and he can feel the heat of Esca’s body as he fits in perfectly, pressing himself to Marcus’s back.

Esca bumps his cock against Marcus's hole again, and Marcus realizes Esca is slicked with something – likely salve the doctor had given him for his wound. Esca says nothing as he slides in, standing on his toes in order to bury himself completely within Marcus. As he pulls back again, Marcus pushes his hips back and fucks himself on Esca's cock, driving it inside himself, the slap of Esca's hips against his arse echoing within the tiny cell.

“Is this what you wanted?” Esca hisses. “All this time?”

Marcus moans at the sound of Esca's voice, his cock stiff and leaking, and he pulls up the front of his toga to fist a hand over himself and tug himself off. He can smell Esca, the dirt and blood and sweat overpowering and filling his nostrils as they move together in the small space.

Esca is grunting behind him, pulling back and shoving in, each thrust seemingly harder than the last.

“This what you want?” he's muttering. “This what you want, Marcus?”

At the utterance of his name, Marcus lets out a low moan, his hips jerking as his cock shoots over his hand and spills on the ground below. Esca thrusts a few more times, his fingers digging into Marcus's hips, and Marcus is sure he will have a smattering of bruises there by nightfall. Esca curses as he comes, the words falling hot against Marcus's neck as he spills his warm seed deep within Marcus.

It is only a moment before Esca withdraws and pulls back, letting Marcus's toga fall, and Marcus cannot look at him. He can feel Esca's come leak from his arse, and his cheeks are red with the shame of it. He’s afraid to speak, and afraid to hear what Esca might say to him. Marcus imagines it will be something mocking, teasing him for being less Roman than he appears, taunting him for bending over in a gladiator cell and begging to be taken. Marcus slips out of the cell with barely a glance at Esca, too ashamed by what he wanted and what he let Esca do to him.

Esca makes no motion to stop him, and does not call after him this time. Marcus escapes quickly, his head lowered as he passes the other cells and slips by the guard.

 

As he walks home, Marcus can feel Esca's come still leaking from him, trailing down his leg.

~

“I saw Placidus in the city square today,” his uncle says one afternoon, and Marcus pays little attention to the statement, caring little about Placidus and his goings-on. “He mentioned there is to be another gladiator show a week from today. Shall we plan to attend?”

Marcus has avoided the announcements in the streets, not wishing to know on what date the next gladiator show might fall. So when it is his uncle who brings him the news, Marcus is left stammering for an excuse.

“I've grown tired of the fighting,” Marcus says, and it is a half truth. He still despises the battles, the blood, and the death, but part of him still wants to attend. He would like to see Esca again. But it is his shame that keeps him away, and the knowledge that he has bared himself to Esca, and done something that no Roman should wish to do. Not only has he done it, but he practically begged Esca for it.

To think, a proud Roman, face pressed to the wall, arse bare, cock leaking, and a Gaul behind him, taking what he wanted. Marcus's cock stiffens each time he thinks of it, and that fact seems to make it all so much worse. He shouldn't want the things he wants. He shouldn't have done the things he did with Esca.

And he shouldn't wish to do them again.

But Marcus does. He thinks of it, and dreams of it, and he knows if he were to attend the games he would be unable to stop himself from rushing to Esca's cell and begging for it again.

“You go without me, Uncle.”

 

The day of the games arrives with very little fanfare. His uncle asks him again that morning, questioning whether Marcus has changed his mind, and Marcus politely declines the invitation. He watches longingly as his uncle leaves, wishing he were walking up the road with him.

Despite his intention to distract himself with other, more important matters, Marcus spends most of the afternoon in his room. He stares out into the garden, wondering how Esca is faring in the ring. Marcus imagines Esca victorious, his sword plunged into his dead opponent’s chest. The crowd will cheer, and Esca will walk from the arena, another successful battle under his belt.

Then Marcus’s mind slips to other outcomes. What if Esca should not be so lucky? Twice now, Marcus has seen him injured, and once, Marcus watched Esca lie on the dusty ground and welcome death. What if it should happen again today? Marcus’s blood runs cold when he imagines Esca on the ground, his face looking to the crowd. Not begging, only looking, and Marcus wonders if Esca will look for him. What will he think if Marcus is not there? Who will call for life if Marcus is not there to do it?

Marcus tortures himself, pondering the notion until Stephanos interrupts him, asking for help with one of the horses. Marcus is quick to offer a hand, glad to have a distraction from his thoughts.

 

His uncle arrives home just before supper, and Marcus rushes to greet him, studying his uncle’s face for any sign that there has been an unexpected outcome in the arena that day.

“I trust the games were as entertaining as ever?” Marcus asks over supper, unable to take the uncertainty any longer.

His uncle hums a reply in the affirmative. “Nothing but blood and violence, my boy. Thrilling to the very end.”

Marcus waits for more, wanting his uncle to mention the Gaul. When he offers no more, Marcus bites his tongue, holding back his inquiry as to the well-being of the small gladiator. Surely if Esca had been killed Marcus's uncle would have said so.

 

Marcus’s sleep is uneasy that night. He has terrible dreams of Esca on the ground of the arena, a foot cutting off his airway and the blade of a sword hovering over his heart. In Marcus’s dreams, Esca looks to him, searching out his face in the crowd, and when Marcus tries to shout for ‘life’ he discovers he has no voice, and his silent calls cannot save Esca.

As the sword pierces Esca’s chest, Marcus wakes with a shout.

~

It's been three days since the last gladiator games, and Marcus is surprised by the sound of his uncle’s voice echoing through the house, calling him, “Marcus, are you here?”

“Yes,” Marcus calls back, “in my room.”

His uncle had left for town in the morning, an action that was not uncommon for him, and Marcus had stayed behind, content to hide away in his room.

Marcus is sitting alone, staring out into the garden. He's done well to keep his mind from Esca, managing to focus his waking thoughts on other subjects, and refusing to fist himself at the thought of the painted Gaul.

Time and determination, that is what it will take to clear his mind of Esca.

When his uncle enters his room, Marcus nods a greeting. “And what was the word in the city today?”

“The same as every other day,” his uncle smiles. “I’m sure you’ve heard it before, and none of it is worth repeating. Besides, I am not here to talk of that.”

“No?” Marcus asks, sure his uncle is going to inquire as to the horse he and Stephanos battled with a few days before, or perhaps he simply means to invite Marcus on a leisurely walk.

“I've brought you a present.”

Marcus turns in his chair, surprised by his uncle's words. The man has never been known to buy gifts for anyone, and having already opened his home to Marcus, the present gesture seems unnecessary.

“I thank you, Uncle, but there is nothing I need.”

“Nonsense,” his uncle replies. “I've decided Stephanos is too old to serve two masters. I've bought you your own body slave.”

Marcus cannot help but feel a bit disgusted at the suggestion. Stephanos is their slave, yes, but he’s become such an integral part of the Aquila household that he is more an old friend than a stranger forced into a servant role.

“I have no use for a slave– ”

“A companion, then,” his uncle interrupts. “Surely you’ve grown tired of having only me to talk to, and I suspect Placidus is not someone you would willingly spend your days with.”

His uncle is correct, but Marcus has no wish for a companion. He’d prefer to be left alone as he attempts to rid his thoughts of Esca.

“Uncle, I do not– ”

“Gaul, come.”

Marcus can only stare in stunned silence as Esca steps into his room. He is properly clothed, his usually bare torso covered with a simple tunic, and the war paint is gone from him. Marcus can see how fair his skin is, his hands and face clean as if he’s been washed of the filth and grime of the cells and the arena itself. His hair, too, is less wild than it usually appears, as if it’s been cleaned and brushed and made presentable.

For a moment a pang of disappointment hits Marcus, as if he misses the wild dirtiness of his Gaul, but then his gaze falls to Esca’s face. The familiar eyes, the stubborn pout of his mouth, and the freckles, covered before by grime, now sprinkled across his cheeks.

It is Esca, and he is alive.

Esca looks back at him, his expression appearing sullen but there is a show of recognition on his brow.

“His name is Esca,” his uncle says, and Marcus realizes he’d forgotten his uncle’s presence in the room.

“I – ” Marcus stutters, unable to peel his gaze from Esca. “I am familiar with his name.”

“Roman,” Esca says, a hint of a smile on his mouth. “I'd hoped it might be you.”


End file.
